


Newsworthy

by starsorts



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming of Age, Eventual kissing, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friendship, Getting Together, High School, High School Journalist Yuuri Katsuki, High School Newspaper, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Pining Victor Nikiforov, Romance, Theatre Student Victor Nikiforov, high school theatre, the oddly specific high school AU that nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 10:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16596053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsorts/pseuds/starsorts
Summary: “There it is again now, the rise and the fall in his stomach – the hope and the reality.  Because the truth is that no matter what happens, Yuuri will never feel the same way. Three years of hoping has taught him this.  The events of last year have taught him this. He has since learned to dull the sting."With graduation on the horizon, high school senior Yuuri Katsuki wants nothing more than to get an interview with Victor Nikiforov, his gorgeous, enigmatic, theatre-obsessed classmate, for his final piece in the school newspaper. Although Victor has always declined to speak to anyone on the paper, he suddenly agrees to a feature article in exchange for Yuuri’s help with the senior musical.  As graduation looms, Yuuri’s not the only one working against the clock to figure out how to encapsulate Victor in his article – Victor is also making one last-ditch attempt to get Yuuri to return his feelings.High School AU where Yuuri is a student newspaper editor and Victor is the star of the drama department.





	Newsworthy

The last morning of print week in March, Yuuri knocks on the journalism classroom door a little before seven.  There’s almost nobody else on campus, just a few teachers heading to the copy room or to the library. The first edge of sunlight creeps across the foothills in the distance and the sky turns a little less heavy in the now-grey morning light.

Across the courtyard, a faint glow spills from the thin windows on the auditorium doors and for a moment, he wonders if Victor Nikiforov is in there.  He imagines Victor onstage, silver hair like spun silk under the bright spotlights, and singing alone, throwing everything else into darkness.

If Yuuri were in front of those doors right now, he’s not sure he’d be able to resist the pull of Victor onstage.  Why, he’s not sure. They’ve only had tenth grade pre-Calculus and junior English together, and he’s not entirely certain Victor knows him well enough to pick him out of a crowd.  And still, Victor is simply magnetic.

Behind him, the classroom door opens with a squeak and Yuuri startles out of his thoughts.  

“Yuuri,” Phichit says, “you came!”  Behind him, in the warmth of the classroom, the editorial board is gathered around a few desks and a pink bakery box.  

“I hope I’m not late.”  Yuuri makes his way toward an empty seat with a short glance back toward the auditorium.

“You’re good,” Phichit says, shutting the door.  The _click_ resonates through the room.  “It’s seven now, so we’ll get started.”

As the editor-in-chief of the Salchow High School Sentinel, Phichit begins to take attendance, unfairly chipper for an early-morning meeting.  It’s not like he goes to bed any earlier than Yuuri does either – he knows for a fact that Phichit was up at one last night editing another batch of photos and sending pictures of his hamsters to the editorial board Slack chat.

Takeshi Nishigori texts a few minutes in, claiming stomach flu, but otherwise, everyone else is seated around the clump of tables Phichit has pushed together.  Upon threat of death or worse, excommunication from the journalism team, nobody would dare miss print week “just because”.

Print week means long hours spent in the journalism classroom finalizing the newspaper, from their weekly editorial board meeting at seven in the morning to after-school hours that tend to stretch into the evening.  It’s not unusual for Yuuri not to see the sun at all during those few days until they send the final edition to the printer.

But print week also means the editorial board works double-time to get started on the upcoming issue.  After this paper goes to print, they’ll have three weeks to work on stories and photos, and one week to finalize and edit and format and possibly (probably) cry.  Yuuri’s seen it on multiple occasions, Phichit curled up in a hard plastic chair and clutching his phone close to his heart. Guang Hong draped over the keyboard and weeping for enough of the hour that Yuuri begins to worry about water damage to their already-sluggish computers.

This year, Yuuri is the editor for the highlights section, which writes feature pieces on a selection of campus members each month.  Miraculously, this month’s spread came together smoothly. Three writers – plus him – submitted their pieces on time and needed only minimal editing before a quick formatting session into InDesign.  On Monday, when he passed final review with Ms. Okukawa, their advisor, a full four days early, he’d dropped to his knees and slumped against the side of her desk in relief. Phichit filmed the whole thing.

There’s a box of bagels sitting in front of Yuuko, so Yuuri reaches for one as Phichit begins moving down his agenda.  He’s talking about the last two issues now – May and June. “We need to take advantage of our senior class,” he says, a little more loudly than before.  “We only have two issues left, so I want to hear some really good pitches. What’s happening around campus? Who can we investigate?”

“The principal,” Seung-gil says next to him, like he does every month.  Seung-gil is the kind of person who Yuuri wouldn’t be surprised to find out is actually a hardened thirty-year-old investigative reporter, or maybe an undercover detective.  “We should investigate her.”

“Okay,” Phichit says, like he does every month.  “If you find something when you’re looking through district reports and stuff, we can try to file a FOIA request.  Anyone else – sports?”

“Robotics team championships are next month,” Yuuko says.  She holds up her phone, glowing with a recent text. “Takeshi sent me his notes.  Lacrosse and badminton have tournaments and graduating seniors.”

“All good, but keep it fresh,” Phichit says.  “We always do graduating senior stories. Pick the most important sports and brainstorm with your writers after we make tonight’s deadline.”

Most of the meeting passes in a blur of rapid-fire pitches – and the occasional argument – until it’s ten minutes to the bell.  With a quick glance at the time on his laptop, Phichit turns to Yuuri.

Yuuri and his team brainstormed their pitches yesterday, so all he has to do is read off his hastily-scribbled notes.  The people they’ve chosen to highlight are solid – the new sculpture teacher, the badminton coach, and two students. He talked it over with Phichit yesterday, so Yuuri’s not expecting any surprises.  But when he sets down his notepad, Phichit closes the lid of his laptop part-way and looks at him.

“What about you?” Phichit asks.

“What about me?”

“Your story – aren’t you writing?”

“There’s not enough space in our section for five stories this issue,” Yuuri says.  He’d talked it over with his writers yesterday – everyone had wanted to write for the May issue, so he figured he’d step back and let them shine.  The stories highlighting students are crowd favorites and it’s all because of the writers on his team. He’s just lucky enough to be lumped in with them too.

“But for the last issue,” Phichit presses again.  “I was thinking it’d be nice to highlight at least one senior.  You know, someone who’s really been a big presence on campus, but people don’t know about him.  Or them.” He tilts his head. Yuuri wonders briefly if he’s thinking of anyone in particular.

In the corner of the room, the heater clicks off.  There’s a silence again as everyone waits.

Unbeckoned, he remembers the glow of the auditorium against the cold grey morning.  “Victor,” he says, without thinking. His voice comes out raspy and falters at the end.  “Victor Nikiforov,” he clarifies and he hopes he sounds steadier this time. “He’s a senior and we’ve never – he’s never agreed to an interview.”

The corners of Phichit’s mouth turn up and his eyes brighten.  Even through the silence around the table, he can tell he’s onto something.

“He’s a big part of the campus community,” Yuuri says, forging ahead.  “I think he was accepted to some prestigious theatre program in the fall and it’s our last chance to feature him before graduation.  Someone could – ” he motions vaguely as his voice falters.

“That would be an interesting article,” Phichit says when nobody else speaks.  “Do you think you can get him to agree to an interview?”

“Me?” Yuuri says.  “What about – Seung-gil,” he turns to the news editor next to him, “you know Victor, right?  You had bio with him last year.”

“Never talked to him.”  Which is fair, because he’s not actually sure if Seung-gil has ever spoken to anyone outside of journalistic necessity.

“Okay,” Yuuri falters, and he remembers the warm auditorium glow.  Victor’s hair like a halo under the stage lights. The thought braids itself between his ribs and pulls hard.  “What about – ”

“I know Victor,” Christophe Giacometti says, from over in the corner.  Christophe, Victor’s best friend and fellow drama student, who also happens to have an incredible nose for who’s doing who around the school.  It’s perfect, why didn’t Yuuri think of that before?

“Good,” Yuuri sighs and his chest loosens a little.  “So you can take the lead on that piece?”

“I mean, I already have the news article about the robotics championship and my column,” Chris says.  He’s not looking at Yuuri now, but at Phichit, and there’s something still bright in his eyes even though his mouth is pressed into a pout.  “I think you might be the best person for this one.”

“But – ”  Before he can finish, the bell rings.  The room swells with noise, chairs scraping back against the dusty linoleum floor, backpack zippers separating.  Already he can feel his chest constricting, voice tightening even at the thought of trying to talk to Victor, let alone asking to interview him.  What if he says no?

What if he says yes?

“Yeah,” Phichit agrees, and Yuuri can make out the barest hint of a smile in his friend’s voice as he slides his laptop into his backpack.  “Chris is right. You’re the perfect person to take the lead on this one.”

–

If he wants even a chance at getting Victor to interview, he’ll have to act as quickly as possible.  Rehearsals for _Stammi Vicino_ , the senior musical Victor’s writing, directing, and starring in. started yesterday and Victor’s schedule will only get more crowded as choreography meetings, department check-ins, and tech week obligations begin to pile up.

Yuuri vividly remembers the exact depth and darkness of the circles under Victor’s eyes last year as the spring musical drew close.  Victor even dozed off during a popcorn reading of _Huckleberry Finn_ the week before the show, which Yuuri completely understood, even if it hadn’t been a result of tech week.

Today, according to Chris, rehearsal ends in five minutes.  He’s supposed to meet him here at the main entrance of the auditorium so they can be “introduced”, is what Chris told him earlier with a shark-like grin.  

The auditorium door actually opens three minutes early today, which is nearly unheard of when Victor’s involved.  Yuuri recognizes a couple people in the crowd that streams out and around him, but there are a lot of unfamiliar faces.  Freshmen maybe, or sophomores.

Finally, he spots Chris at the tail end of the crowd and catches his eye.  And then there’s a familiar simmering at the bottom of his stomach, a sweet spin, because there’s Victor.

Yuuri could recognize him a mile away – long starlit hair pinned back hastily and mouth curved like a bow, soft at the corners.  Victor tilts his head as Chris points toward Yuuri and a few wisps of his hair fall delicately against his leather jacket. His eyes are wide, like he’s being steered somewhere against his will.

What if he’s upset?  What if it’s _Yuuri_ making him upset?  That’d be a new accomplishment – upsetting one of his interviewees before they’d even begun.  He could go back to the journalism classroom and tell Phichit that this is just _one of those things_.  One of those times they can’t get the story, so they’ll just swap it out with something else.  Easy.

“Yuuri,” Victor says, and the world seems to shudder to a stop.  Yuuri can’t hear anything above the noise of students milling around, above the constant _Chris told him my name?_ running through his head, above the racing of his heart.  And then, miraculously: “I heard we should talk.”

* * *

>  Yuuri: [coughs] Is it recording?  Okay. This interview is with Victor Nikiforov.  Today is May 21, 2016. I’m Yuuri Katsuki with the Salchow High School Sentinel.  Can you please spell your name?
> 
> Victor:  V-I-C-T-O-R-N-I-K-I-F-O-R-O-V
> 
> Yuuri:  And what grade are you?
> 
> Victor:  Twelfth.
> 
> Yuuri:  Okay. This interview is on record.  Anything you say can be used in the Salchow High School Sentinel.  You may answer as many or as few questions as you would like.  Do you agree to this interview?
> 
> Victor:  I do.

* * *

The first day of rehearsals is always a disaster, but today seems to be a special kind.  Like a flood maybe, except if a flood suddenly bore down on the auditorium right now, Victor would probably welcome it.

He clears his throat.  In the midst of unzipping and re-zipping backpacks, the rustling of closing scripts, the room settles.  “Good rehearsal today, everyone,” he says through a wide smile. “We’ll pick it up again tomorrow.” Even through they read through about half the script and talked costumes, something still feels off.

Chris knows it too.  “You know who could help?” he says, catching up with Victor as he returns the music stand to the closet.  

Victor doesn’t respond right away, just sighs and surveys the room one last time for stray backpacks and jackets.  “If this is one of your schemes, today isn’t really – ”

“Yuuri.”  And there it is, that familiar feeling of his ribcage squeezing in on itself.  Gradually, it releases his heart with a little somersault. “He’s a great writer,” Chris continues, despite the fact that Victor’s body is actively shutting down.  

“It’s like you don’t remember what happened.”

“It’s like you haven’t given it another chance.”

“And this is just a casual suggestion, of course,” Victor says as he pushes open the auditorium door.  “No ulterior motives.”

Chris falls into step beside him, wide-eyed like a little kid in a detergent commercial.  Too clean, too pure to be trusted. “None whatsoever.” And just as soon as the words slide out of his mouth, Victor sees him.

Yuuri.

Yuuri in his grey sneakers and cuffed skinny jeans, a reporter’s notebook clutched close to his chest.  Hair a little messy but so soft. The memory returns, unbidden, of meeting Yuuri in pre-Calculus two years ago – the way his bangs would fall across his forehead as he worked intently through a problem set, the precise way his cheeks flushed as he whispered with Phichit.

  
And then – the way Yuuri’s eyes met his, soft and dark and so close –

There it is again now, the rise and the fall in his stomach – the hope and the reality.  Because the truth is that no matter what happens, Yuuri will never feel the same way. Three years of hoping has taught him this.  The events of last year have taught him this. He has since learned to dull the sting.

But Chris prods him forward, one eyebrow raised, and Chris wouldn’t have set this up if he thought the whole thing was completely hopeless, right?  Which means, if he plays his cards right –

“Yuuri,” Victor says immediately, breathlessly, and why couldn’t he have said something smarter?  The whole thing feels like he’s seeing Yuuri through a hazy glass, unable to reach him. Yuuri tilts his head a little, and his brain scrambles for something else to say.  “I heard we should talk.”

–

“I didn’t think anyone was still here,” he says, once they’re settled on a wooden bench a short distance from Chris.  Yuuri’s hugging his backpack in front of him like a rescue buoy and Victor tries not to focus on Yuuri’s hands, which are currently fiddling with one of the straps.  Instead, he glances back toward Chris who, despite focusing intently on something on his phone, looks as if he’s enjoying Victor’s panic a little too much.

“Print week,” Yuuri says quietly, as if that explains everything.  He suddenly regrets not paying a little more attention to Chris rambling about journalism.  Lifting his head a little, Yuuri notices his confusion. “It’s where we stay after school to finish putting together the paper.  There’s this big layout that we put together through InDesign, and we transfer the articles and the photos, make sure everything fits.  Or we do last-minute cutting because sometimes it’s down to a few characters and – ” Yuuri’s eyes widen, soft dark brown. “Sorry, that’s kind of the boring part of it.  You probably didn’t want to hear about it.”

On the contrary, Victor thinks he’d be very happy to listen to Yuuri talk about anything – journalism, what he ate for lunch that day, fluctuating gasoline prices.  Instead, it’s like watching a deer caught in headlights.

“Anyway,” Yuuri says, “I won’t waste your time.  I came to – ” His eyes dart to where Chris is standing.  “I came to ask you if you’d do an interview with us. With me.  For the paper.”

Victor doesn’t answer. It’s not like he’s been able to fly completely under the radar – being an actor, being in countless plays and musicals in the drama department has guaranteed some amount of attention.

But newly eighteen and with just months to go until graduation, the world is so much wider than what Salchow High School can offer.  With the upcoming autumn promising a fresh start across the country, it’s why, a year ago, he decided: the day of graduation will be the last day he speaks to anyone at Salchow High.  A year ago, the day he realized he’d used up all the chances he’d been given.

Yuuri clears his throat.  “It’s just that you’re an important part of the community, and we’re graduating this year.  I think people would be interested in learning about you and seeing what you want to do with your life after this.”

But even in front of him now, it’s the same as it’s always been – the hope and the fall, a constant cycle.  Yuuri, a distant star around which to orbit, and Yuuri’s dark eyes are gravity. In the dwindling afternoon light, the distinct rhythm of his heart is stronger than the hollow ache for the coming autumn.  He can only give one answer.

“I’ll do it,” he says, before he can regret it.   _One more chance,_ he thinks.   _One more chance._  “But I need your help with something too.  A trade, if you will.”

“What is it?”

“There’s something…” Victor hesitates, searching for the right word.  “Something off about the script. I’m not a writer, so I don’t know what it is – but it feels flimsy.”

“I’m not – ”

And immediately he feels it, the way Yuuri instinctively shrinks in on himself, lowers his eyes.  Victor scrambles for something to grab onto. “You’re a writer,” he says. “You’ve been on the paper for three years, surely you must – ”  He’s not sure how to finish the sentence.

“I write articles,” Yuuri says.  His brow furrows. “I don’t think I really have the skills to help you.”

“But you do,” Victor says, “in all of your articles, you tell stories of people.  And that’s what my production is about – telling the story of people.” Yuuri remains quiet.  “Two people,” Victor forges ahead, “who love each other. Soulmates.”

At that, Yuuri meets Victor’s gaze and he wonders if Yuuri catches his real meaning.  Victor’s heart gallops as Yuuri seems to search his face. He holds his breath close as he braces for the blow.

“Okay,” Yuuri says finally.  It takes a moment for everything to catch up, and Victor’s still not sure he heard him correctly.  “Okay, I’ll edit your story if you do an interview for us.”

Just to be sure, Victor extends his hand in front of them.  Yuuri stares at it. “Shake on it,” Victor says and a small smile slips out into his voice.  “It’s a deal.”

–

“It’s called _Stammi Vicino_ ,” Victor says at lunch on Monday, handing Yuuri a bound copy of the script.  “It’s about two soulmates and learning to heal after heartbreak.”

They’ve managed to find an empty bench out by the basketball courts, far enough from the main main buildings that Victor hopes they won’t be disturbed.  Besides a few people playing a pickup game of basketball and the Dungeons and Dragons club out next to the chain-link fence, the area is deserted. Perfect for a quiet, romantic planning meeting.

Or it would be romantic if Yuuri didn’t sit three feet away from him, all the way across the bench.  Right now, he’s hunched over the script Victor’s given him, bangs falling across his forehead so Victor can’t see his expression.  What if he hates it? What if it’s so terrible that he writes a scathing review of it in the Salchow Sentinel?

Overhead, a flock of seagulls cries.

“It’s good,” Yuuri says after a few minutes.  

“You read all that in a couple minutes?”  And the script needs work, sure, but how is he supposed to win Yuuri’s heart with a mediocre story?

“Skimmed,” Yuuri says.  “Yeah.”

“I’m not a writer.”  Yuuri’s looking at him now, playing with the strap on his backpack again.

“Nobody is when they start out,” Yuuri says finally.   _You were_ , Victor thinks.  It’s as if Yuuri doesn’t remember that he was the first freshman ever accepted onto the Salchow Sentinel, or that Yuuri broke that story sophomore year about the vice principal siphoning academic funds into sports.  “But your story – it’s a good start.”

“And I want a good ending,” Victor says.  He scoots as subtly as he can across the bench toward Yuuri.  “You said you’d help me, Yuuri,” he says lightly and he finally catches Yuuri’s gaze.  

Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut.  His nose scrunches and Victor is strangely tempted to run a finger across the creases it makes.  “Fine,” Yuuri says, and his eyes spring open again. This time, there’s a light flush across his cheeks.  “Fine, of course I’ll help you.”

“Of course?”  Maybe Chris was right.  Maybe there’s another chance in this.

“Because I promised I would,” Yuuri says.  “Remember?” The hope and the fall, and he tries not to fixate on it.

Yuuri spends the rest of lunch marking up the script with a red pen.  Victor spends the rest of lunch trying not to stare at Yuuri, who only looks up when the bell rings.  

“I’ve marked up the most important parts,” Yuuri says.  “And I’ll start drafting tonight. Do you need this copy?”  

Victor shakes his head.  “Take as much time as you need.”

As they head back for class, Victor holds the hallway door open for Yuuri.  “I’ll get a new draft to you by Thursday,” Yuuri says as he walks past. “Then maybe you can look at them on Friday?”

“Works for me,” Victor says, and suddenly, Friday’s lunch can’t come soon enough.  But what if the script is perfect and that’s the last time he has an excuse to see Yuuri?  What if his last chance ends before it can begin? “Will we have enough time to cover everything during lunch?” he asks.  “You could come to rehearsal. See everyone, see how the story needs to work.”

“I’m not – ”

“You don’t have print week,” Victor says, remembering Chris’ miniature briefing on Yuuri over the weekend.  “And everyone would love to meet you.” From there, surely, Victor can think of an excuse to keep seeing him.

“I guess – ”

“It’s a date then,” he says.  “Auditorium, right after school.”

“Fine,” Yuuri says as he starts to head off to his class, but he doesn’t sound upset.  

 _One more chance_ , Victor thinks.  This time, he’ll make it count.  It’s fate. Destiny, luck. Yuuri would know just the right word.

Before he can think better of it, he calls to Yuuri.  “Is there a better word for fate?” he asks. “Or destiny.  Something for when the soulmates meet.” He points to the script a little for plausible deniability.

Yuuri freezes for a moment, flicks his gaze up to meet Victor’s.  “Serendipity,” he says with a small smile. For the first time in a year, everything stings a little less.

 _Serendipity_.  The word rolls off his tongue like a laugh, like a moth to lamplight, like maybe something wonderful is about to begin.  It’s perfect. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> a huge huge thank you to @sorariin, the artist for this piece, who is absolutely the kindest, most patient human being to ever walk the planet. she does beautiful YOI art, so please follow her on Tumblr if you want your dashboard to be forever blessed <3
> 
> there will be about 10-12ish chapters(?) to this. we’ll see. also, please subscribe if you’d like to know when the next chapter goes up bc I’m juggling two jobs and school and uhhhh we’ll see what happens to my “posting schedule” LOL
> 
> or you can just yell with me on Tumblr about YOI, that works too (@starsorts)
> 
> your kudos and comments keep this dumpster fire burning. thank you for reading!!


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